Dominic
A jet of water rained down on the other side of the wall.
Rising, I closed the laptop, then made my way to the bathroom door, turned the handle, and found it locked.
"That better not be the shower," I said, loud enough for her to hear over the rushing water.
"I'm just going to rinse off my legs."
"Open the door." I rattled the handle.
This time, I wasn't concerned about my little birdie flying away because the bathroom contained nothing but walls of tile or sheetrock—no windows for her to make a grand escape through. But the thought of her stepping inside the shower and getting the wound wet, when not medically cleared, annoyed the shit out of me. Not to mention, since being medicated, she could lose her balance and fall.
"Unlock it." I tapped my knuckles against the wooden door. "Or I'll kick it in."
"What? You don't have any lock picking skills?" Her feet lightly patted against the tile, giving away her movement. "Even Filipe can pick a lock."
"Mina, I'm waiting."
"Yep, and you can keep right on waiting." Her voice rose over the water.
Fuck. She'll be the death of me yet.
Her words sparked an idea. A quick examination of the door lock revealed a slit that would unlock the door from this side if turned. Grabbing my keys, I toyed with a couple of them but then opted for something thinner, a dime.
I extracted a coin from my pocket, inserted it in the slit, jiggled the handle, and then opened the door.
Head bowed, naked, and with her back to me, she stood inside the shower stall, holding the removable shower head in one hand, spraying soapy suds off the front of her body, her legs, and then her feet.
The bandage on her back remained dry and in place, to my relief.
Making my way up to her, I wondered just how close I could get before she realized I had entered the bathroom. As I approached, bruises of various shades and sizes on the backs of her legs, torso, and arms caught my attention.
The rage monster inside me awakened and wanted only one thing—to obliterate those who had hurt my little doe-eyed sparrow, starting with her uncle, the Mad Dog himself.
She gathered her hair with one hand, then with the other still holding the portable shower head, she sprayed down her scalp, letting the water run down her dark locks. Releasing her hair, she reached for the shampoo dispenser. She winced, then staggered back, stumbling out of the shower stall.
A small cry escaped her parted lips, and that's when I realized she was softly crying.
The shower head slipped between her fingers, and it clanged against the pebble tile next to the drain. She reached for the stall frame, but her grip slipped.
Reactive, my arm shot out, and I drew the back of her body to the front of my frame.
She yelped.
"You're safe," I whispered. "I've got you. You're not alone."
She exhaled a sigh of relief and relaxed in my arms.
"Let me help you," I said softly in her ear, "care for you."
She nodded in response, and I led her back to the shower stall.
"Hold on." I placed her hand on a metal rail, then picked up the nozzle.
She shut her eyes and tilted her head to the side. Once her hair was wet, I dispensed a quarter-sized dab of shampoo in the palm of my hand, then lathered up her dark locks. I rinsed her hair, careful to keep her back dry, then repeated the process with some conditioner.
When done, I grabbed two towels, wrapping her hair in one, and then dried her off with the other.
Curling an arm around her waist, I drew her naked body against me, then breathed in her fresh, clean scent.
"Dom." My name rolled off her lips like a soft, inviting whisper.
I bowed my head, and she stood on the tips of her toes to meet me halfway for a soft, tender kiss. She looped an arm around my neck, playing with the nape of my hair.
Scooping her up into my arms, only one thought came to mind—I had to touch her, tease her, taste her.
In the bedroom, I sat her on a chair, eased her knees apart, then kneeled between them.
"Scoot to the edge," I commanded.
Those doe eyes of hers held me in their gaze. She blinked a few times, then complied.
I pressed my lips to her inner right thigh, then to her left, making my way up to the one sweet spot I craved most. And with my thumbs, I parted her lips, revealing the pink flower hidden within.
Barely able to contain myself, I ran the tip of my tongue up her slick clit, and she gripped the sides of the chair, trembling.
The taste of her on my tongue was what I imagined heaven tasted like, if there was such a thing. And at that moment, she was my heaven, so I bowed my head at her gate, seeking entry.
I flicked the erect nub of her clit with my tongue. She jumped, and her eyes widened. Repeating the motion, I flick the erect nub again, but this time, I sucked on her throbbing flesh, and a moan escaped her mouth.
She ground her hips, and little mews of pleasure and need rose in her throat. I slipped a finger inside her, followed by a second, then pumping in and out. Her breaths came in short, shallow pants, and her parted thighs quivered.
Her muscles contracted around my fingers. I continued to suck on her clit, and she came hard and fast against my mouth, calling my name.
When her body stopped trembling, I released her clit, and made my way up her body, nipping and tasting on my way to her mouth. I took her lips, plunging my tongue inside her mouth, wanting to claim every inch of her, from her head to her toes.
My cell vibrated against my leg, once, twice, three times, letting me know I had new messages.
"Is that your phone?" She drew back and held my gaze. A light blush covered her face and body.
"Uh-huh." I kissed her lips, chin, and neck, then took one of her rosy buds into my mouth.
"Don't you, uhm," she pressed her breast closer to my face, "shouldn't you see who it is that's . . ."
A moan left her lips.
The fucking phone vibrated again, but this time, someone was calling.
"Fuck. Hold that thought," I said, then retrieved my phone.
The messages were from Tima, and now, the man was calling.
"Hey," I said, "what's—"
"Is the Costa girl with you?" asked Tima. "Tell me she's with you. That you have eyes on her."
"Yeah, why?" I asked. "She's right in front of me."
"You gotta move," said Tima. "Word on the street, the Mexicans are coming for her."
"That's not new," I said, annoyed. "Everyone knows that."
"Read your fucking texts once in a while, and you'd understand, shit of for brains." The line went dead.
"What's is it?" Mina drew her legs together and crossed her arms over her chest.
I pulled up my messages and scrolled to Tima's name.
—The uncle issued a kill order.
—Said if he can't have the codes, no one can!
—The Pakhan has a crew en route to pick up the asset.
—The Surgeon and his crew will take over.
—ETA in twenty.
Mina read the text, rose on shaky legs, and made her way to the bag of clothing next to the closet.
My brain froze on the fourth line of the text, the one stating "The Surgeon" and his crew would assume control of the asset—of my Mina.
Fuck that!
"God, I'm such an idiot," she said, then shook her head.
There's no way in hell that sick fuck's gonna touch her.
Over the years, I'd seen what he'd done to the men and women who had crossed my Pakhan. But Mina was different. She was an innocent—even fled from the shit-fest her father had left her—started a new life.
The Surgeon would make her talk. He always made them talk, and once she did, he'd kill her, slowly for his amusement.
The sick fuck likes his job, and he's good at it.
"Hey," I approached her. "What's going on in that head of yours?"
She slipped on a pair of panties, then yanked the tags off the jeans and shirt.
"I'm just a job to you. An asset," Mina scoffed. "I'm the fucking package you gotta deliver. So, what, that surgeon fuck can extract the same information my uncle wants? Fuck that and fuck you!"
"That's not fair," I said, "and you know it. Everything I've done, I did to protect you."
"Yeah, and you did a fabulous job—orgasms and all. Kudos." She slipped her arms through the shirt, pulled it over her head, and then struggled to ease it down her body. "But I guess that's one efficient way of keeping the package engaged, huh?"
Her words made me feel like a first-rate asshole. I grabbed the shirt to help, but she jerked away.
"Don't touch me." The motion put pressure on her wound, and she winced.
Pinning her arms to her sides, I drew her into a bear hug.
"It's not what you think," I whispered. "Keep your voice down before someone hears you."
"And why the fuck would that matter?" She wiggled in my arms.
"Because I need to get you out of here."
"What?" Those doe-eyes of hers widen.
"I'm not turning you over—not to the Russians, the Italians, or to the fucking Mexicans, and I'm sure as shit not letting The Surgeon or my Pakhan, Alexei Stepanovich, have you."
"I don't understand." She looked at me with skepticism, which I couldn't blame her for. "Why would you do that? Help me?"
"Why? Because your uncle tried to flay the flesh from your body for a fucking tattoo, and now, he has a kill order issued." I shook my head. "What do you think my Pakhan will do when you refuse to give him what he wants—what The Surgeon will do? I already told you, Mina, you're mine, and I protect my own."
"If you do this, if you help me, you'll forfeit your life, Dom," she said, then swallowed hard. "They'll kill you for betraying them—for betraying your boss."
"Ex-Boss. Let them try," I said, "they have to find me first, and as I said, I'm not giving you up, not to any of them, because you're mine!"